


Dynasty

by boughofbone



Category: Fire Emblem, Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Hilda Goneril, like the heir apparent baybeee, lorenz my sweet lorenz, pregnancy reveal, royal baby, royal intrigue, slight succession drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2020-10-24 11:04:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20704937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boughofbone/pseuds/boughofbone
Summary: Byleth is unaccustomed to sickness and therefore wholly unfamiliar with the discomfort it brings.  When she seeks out Manuela for advice, she is given a diagnosis that leaves her feeling foolish, overwhelmed, and entirely out of her element.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try my hand at a prompt you see pretty commonly but with my own personal twist. This was a lot of fun to write and there will be more of this one, which will be fun!

Byleth had been very fortunate that she did not catch sick often, nor seriously. In hindsight this was most likely the result of the crest stone that took the place of her heart—a strange kind of exception to the normal law of nature. Where before she struggled to remember her day to day, her divine awakening seven years hence had put crisp edges to her memories. It was like a fogged window being wiped clean to reveal a clear image of the landscape beyond. 

She could now remember with confidence that her father had never fretted over a fever, taken her to a village healer for an ailment, nor made her chew bark to soothe a nauseous wave. She had never awoken in the night with a cold sweat and a wheezing cough to craze Jeralt with fear. Illness was not an enemy she knew well, if at all. That was one of the only miracles her odd nature had bestowed upon her father. 

Two mornings ago Byleth awoke in a tight lipped panic, barely managing to grasp the edges of her chamber pot before her stomach expelled itself. She realized what an odd experience it was when her body kicked in with hazy relief; she wasn’t sure that she had ever experienced something like this. Her whole lower half was tangled in her sheets and sticky with sweat. The Queen of Fódlan lie alone with legs akimbo upon the floor of her grand bedroom, panting like a dog. While vomiting was certainly alarming, she could only feel grateful that she’d been alone in the room when it happened. Her attendants would have needlessly fretted and set the whole of Derdriu to panic—there was no need for such melodrama. Byleth dismissed the sickness when she felt herself gradually strengthen through the day, blaming a sour piece of meat. 

To her chagrin it had happened again the following morning. And just like before, she felt better as the day progressed. She had thanked the stars that she could not alarm her absent husband and set about her day. 

Lorenz was in Gloucester lands and would remain there for at least another fortnight, perhaps much longer he encountered trouble wrangling his vassals. The Great Bridge of Myrddin had become somewhat of a headache—Acheron’s death in the war had caused a vacuum of power in the region that left the surrounding area vulnerable. Half a dozen minor lords clawed for the right to seize the vital structure and it had fallen to Lorenz to bring them to heel. Byleth was surprised by just how much this had unnerved her, as she had always been incredibly independent. She did not enjoy being parted from the noble lifeline that was her husband. 

Again this morning she awoke heaving. She spat the sour contents of her mouth into the porcelain basin, crinkling her nose in disgust. Byleth now, for the third day in a row, sat in relative normalcy upon the plush rug of her bedroom floor. The chamber pot sitting on the tops of her thighs pressed cold indents to her skin. Relief spread through her veins like bathwater and eased the roll of her stomach. She wanted to ask someone if this is normal, but even a simple question such as that would set tongues wagging. 

Her cotton nightgown clung to her skin uncomfortably and she fought the urge to peel it off and fling it across the room. Instead she shifted the basin off her thighs and slid it as far away from her as she possibly could, grimacing all the while. Three days of this means she couldn’t ignore it any longer as a matter of state. She dragged her hand across sweat-clung bangs and sighed. 

It was time to see a healer. 

She stood, pausing slightly as the room spun around her, and then promptly sat back down with a huff. The dizziness would pass any second and then she could dress, politely decline breakfast, refuse whatever ultimatum Hilda presented her with, and then discreetly seek Manuela. In a few minutes Manuela was bound to snap a finger and dispel the sickening malady. Byleth hoped so, at least. She wasn’t exactly familiar with nausea—or healing magic beyond forcing a wound closed, for that matter. 

Luck was on her side when she rose again, feeling slightly triumphant at her own durability. With measured steps she headed towards the wardrobe, clutching its side for support once she arrived. It’d been awhile since she’d felt so weak--today had turned into a day for plain gowns and simple accessories. A second huff fell from her lips as she opened the wardrobe and then pulled a pretty, cream-colored linen dress out. It took a moment to find the matching mint wrappings from a separate drawer, which she tossed upon her bed in satisfaction. 

The door to her room opened with a click and a maid entered, eyes downcast as she heads for the sickly chamber pot. This piece of royal life never failed to embarrass Byleth, and she offers a timid apology. The maid looked into the filthy contents of the basin and gave her queen a strange look before quickly ducking out of the room. The odd exchange left Byleth feeling exposed. Strange. 

So she filled a basin with cold water, washed her face, pulled her hair back in a simple ponytail, and _then_ flung the nightgown off. She dressed with the subdued movements of a moping child until the last strap was tied in place and let her hands fall to her sides. She was as disheveled as she dared to be without drawing attention, leaning forward into her mirror for one last look. There were small bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes that were hardly noticeable, since she showed no other signs of obvious exhaustion or discomfort. The Goddess had indeed blessed her with a pristine mask for a face. 

She made her way across the halls of her palace with relative ease and largely uninterrupted. The ancient seat of House Riegan in Derdriu had been graciously gifted to the queen by its former Duke Claude on the singular condition that its doors remained open to him. Byleth would have granted this request anyway, a fact which Claude had known far before he’d suggested it. The heir of the Almyran throne had never imposed upon this extended offer despite her wishing otherwise. She thought about him now with an ache of nostalgia as she made her way toward Manuela. 

Manuela Casagranda had been named Royal Physician upon Byleth’s ascension, a title which until now had been strictly ceremonial. It had been a trial to win her from the monastery, but in the end the salty air of Derdriu and the lofty title had won her over. Byleth found herself standing before the doors of her former colleague’s chambers, tapping her knuckles lightly upon the door. There was a yelp of surprise behind the painted wood and Byleth gave a small smile. Some things never changed. 

Cursing, what sounds like a glass breaking, and a lilting “Just a minute!” render this interaction common. There’s a clamor and then the door swung open in a wide arc, with Manuela appearing slightly breathless and bug eyed at the recognition of her visitor. “Oh Your Majesty,” the croak of sleep was heavy on her voice, “I didn’t expect you to pay me a visit this morning. You need little old me?”

“I do, Manuela. May I come in?”

“Oh of course dear, come right in.”

Manuela’s rooms weren’t filthy, but neither were they tidy. There’s a disheveled look about the place that suggested the inhabitant merely left things where they lay and didn’t fuss over cleanliness. There were maids to do that for her now, anyway. Byleth chewed the inside of her cheek and wondered if Manuela had been locking them out in favor of a few minutes of extra sleep. It seemed the most logical explanation, given her history. 

Byleth sat between a wrinkled shirt and an empty saucer on the loveseat, her back as straight as an arrow. The sight might look laughable to the outside eye; here the queen sat before her head physician in a comically untidy room which neither woman dared acknowledge. Manuela pulled a stool across the tile floor to sit before her queen with as much deference as the hung-over woman could muster. 

Manuela began. “So, your majesty. You needed to see me, and here I am.”

“I am unwell.”

Manuela raised her eyebrows, clearly surprised. Byleth had never called upon her before, and for her to come now immediately made Manuela wary of the potential severity. “Unwell? How so?”

Byleth regaled her in a seemingly bored tone of her past three mornings in clinical detail. Manuela nodded, tapping at her chin with a single index finger. That at least was cleanly shaped and painted. “Any changes in diet?”

“No, all has been routine.”

“Any fainting, random dizziness?”

“Not through the day. Once I recover from the nausea I carry onward as normal.”

“Other pain? Headaches, joint pain, that sort of thing?”

“No.” Byleth suddenly felt very foolish for her alarm. If Manuela had not immediately identified it, the ailment was either imagined or truly a piece of spoiled meat. She naturally began shaking her head to dispel the silly worry like a gnat circling her face. A split second later, however, and Manuela’s voice cut through her reverie. 

“Your Majesty...when was your last monthly cycle?”

It was Byleth’s turn to be surprised. “I…” she suddenly couldn’t recall. “I don’t remember, but that isn’t odd. It has never come regularly.”

Manuela forced a breath out through her nostrils, adjusting her weight upon the stool. “Your Majesty...do you, ah, do you indulge in your husband often?” Her voice increased an octave right at the end—she was clearly uncomfortable prying into the royal bedchamber. 

The question sat upon the air, stagnating it with alarming speed. As Byleth blankly stared at Manuela and tried to process the question, she became more aware of her friend’s obvious discomfort. Dawning realization crept up her extremities and raised the hair on her neck and arms, reddening the tips of her ears. Manuela knew she needn’t say another word and instead tentatively reached forward to grasp her liege’s hand. Byleth didn’t feel the contact, as she was now in some faraway, out-of-body experience. The odd sensation that she was standing next to herself and watching Manuela soothe her was strangely alarming. 

“There’s still a test I can do to be sure, if you don’t mind killing a rabbit. But I...I honestly don’t think we need to, Your Majesty.”

Byleth gawked as Manuela’s mouth continually moved. All at once her body incited rebellion against her; blood was draining from her face and her tongue was suddenly too big for her mouth. Panic seized her veins at a conclusion that was obvious, somehow inevitable, yet previously faraway and dreamy. Phantom bells rang in her ear, heralding the birth of their next sovereign in a clamor that wet her palms. Was this fainting? Was this what it felt like? She thought she might be fainting. 

Manuela’s yelp and the sudden blackness assure her that yes, she was fainting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth reaches a decision regarding her condition.

The evening air that swept into her bedroom was salty with the tang of the sea, gently swaying her plush curtains like the dress of a spinning songstress. Byleth chewed a slice of candied ginger as she prepared for bed, vainly hoping it would ease the roll of nausea morning now brought. So far it hadn’t worked, but that didn’t stop her from lolling the spicy root from one side of her mouth to the other anyway. Ten full days had passed since she’d been given her diagnosis, and each morning seemed to outdo the previous in terms of pure misery. Maybe tomorrow she’d get lucky and the torture would cease. It was doubtful, but a woman could dream. 

She watched from her bed as the light slowly died across the wet horizon and servants flitted to light the lamps all around the palace. The smell of oil appeared only briefly before it was overwhelmed by the brine, disappearing in a puff of smoke. She would normally occupy herself at this hour with a review of the next day’s itinerary or sift through her missives, but she was too distracted with faraway thoughts. Instead Byleth pulled a brush through her mint colored hair and waited for the maids to leave her be with the click of a latch. 

Here, in the silence of a night too young, she allowed her mind to wander. Her hand absentmindedly drifted across her lower belly, the caress of a title so terrifying it even sobers “queen” into feasibility—_mother._ Nine measly months left her precious little time to prepare for such a daunting task, and the fact that her husband was faraway and blissfully ignorant only magnified her anxieties. Each night spent alone since Manuela’s revelation had been pure isolationist agony. Byleth fluffed the blankets just-so and shifted her hips for comfort, sinking far into the pillows of the canopied bed. The long, horrifying night had officially begun. 

Manuela remained the only person who knew of her present _condition_, and the queen intended to keep it that way. Lorenz was still handling the affairs of Myrddin and had not corresponded the progress of his work there. It was likely he wanted to return home in a triumphant procession to prove his place as her greatest asset. He did love melodrama, a trait which actually drew Byleth to him like candle-flame. Compared to her subdued and flat-line nature Lorenz had always been a shimmering blade against monotony. 

Thinking of him made her ache, and her lungs expelled drawn out sighs from her place within the cushioned fortress. Manuela had sworn her secrecy freely, fully understanding that her friend and queen could not afford to have her pregnancy announced to all of Fódlan before it had been announced to her husband. Consort or no, the father of her child deserved the courtesy of knowing before the rest of her court. The thought of telling him still made Byleth’s palms slick with sweat and she wasn’t quite sure why. 

Having children had always been part of the plan; while they had never addressed the topic in the past it was blatantly obvious that they intended to establish a dynasty. As a queen, Byleth was now expected to present Fódlan with an heir apparent, a child to single handedly quash a war of succession. Lorenz was similarly the eldest son of an ancient line that he had always fully intended to further. While these things were apparent, Byleth couldn’t shake the feeling that she was looking down the shaft of a drawn arrow. Wanting to have children and wanting to have children _eventually_ were two very different things. Not to mention the fact that the United Fódlan was still a fledgling, fragile country that required an immense amount of dedication. 

A baby drawing the queen’s attention away from the governance of her country could be devastating. To be physically weakened by a pregnancy also left her vulnerable to all manner of threats, and that was nothing to say of the inherent dangers of childbirth itself—how would the people of Fódlan be impacted if their queen died on the birthing bed? If the child survived such a tragedy, would the country accept the leadership of a regent? Would Lorenz be mentally fit to assume such a role after the death of his wife?

Byleth physically shivered despite the warm air. These thoughts played through her mind in agonizing repetition like a small fragment of an infuriating song. In the morning she was ill, in the afternoon she was distracted, and in the evening she was terrified. Such had been her life for ten long days and the signs of wear had finally begun to splinter hairpin fractures across her facade. This was, at least in the moment and very stupidly, more bothersome and exhausting than the Great War had been. Byleth was at her core a warrior and a general, and commanding her troops had come as second nature as breathing. Within the dirt and the horror of war she was truly her best, her most devastating, and the throes of domesticity routinely vexed her. Despite her body’s sheer exhaustion she could not welcome the blissful abyss of sleep, too filled with the phantom image of a horrified Lorenz. 

The image came unbidden to her mind’s eye with crystal clarity—Byleth holds his hands and tells him in hushed tones that she was with child, and Lorenz wrenched his hands free in despair. He cried that they were not ready, that this was horrific timing for the new kingdom, that there was too much work to be done. He shouted her own insecurities at her like an incantation that sow the doom of Fódlan. With a shimmering twist the image warped and Lorenz is instead livid, his voice high and keening as he reprimands her carelessness. The thought that she could so thoroughly earn her husband’s ire placed a sinking put in the depths of her stomach. 

For the first time in years tears pool and threatened to spill down her cheeks, so deep was the longing for her husband and fear of his rejection. Byleth forced an even breath from her lungs and focused on observing the patterns in her canopy, trapping her tears within glossy eyes. It was difficult to force the phantom image of Lorenz’s disgusted, furrowed brows from her mind. It was even more difficult to convince herself that this threat is imagined and bore no root within reality. Her rational brain told her that these images were simply the manifestations of her insecurities magnified by her delicate physical state. How easy life would be if she could return to the days of her cold, infallible rationality. The genesis of her emotion came with a strange and break-neck learning curve she could never be sure she was cresting. 

How she wished that all was well in Gloucester lands, that her husband could return and this suspense could end. Even should he react negatively, which she highly doubted even through her fear, at least it would be over. The agony of not knowing had dug its claws within her mental fortitude and withered her resolve. 

Byleth closed her eyes and prayed for sleep. There was no use keeping herself awake with baseless apprehension, and the morning always came far too soon. With a slight grimace she chewed and swallowed the candied ginger, hating the stinging sensation upon her tongue. 

There was a knock at the door. 

Her eyes snapped open with a jolt as she rose in bed, her back as straight as a board. While it was not uncommon that missives arrived in the night, her staff was loathe to bother her after a certain hour. She pulled the backs of her hands across her eyes to wipe away tears that never spilled, since any such emotion would cause a tittering amongst her palace staff. There was no retreat from composed expectation. 

“You may enter,” she called with an even voice. 

A servant stepped into the room, one of Byleth’s favorites. She was a slight girl with dark hair and eyes, and always looked as though she was dangerously bored. Her name was Ceris, and she often helped Byleth with drawing her bath water. She entered with a low curtsy and spoke to the rug on the floor. “Pardon my intrusion, Your Majesty. You have received a letter from His Royal Highness, Lord Gloucester. I was worried that you wouldn’t want it to wait until morning.”

The Goddess worked in mysterious ways. Perhaps Sothis would have snorted a laugh if she could hear Byleth produce such a thought, but instead there was only silence. Byleth raised her eyebrows and instinctively held out her hand from her place lost in bedding. “You would be right, Ceris. Thank you for bringing it to me.”

She crossed the room in a few steps, pressing the letter into her leige’s hand without ever looking up. “Your Majesty. Would you like for me to wait until it’s read? In case an express messenger must be sent in reply?”

While reading her husband’s letter in company did not exactly thrill her, she was grateful at the suggestion. “Yes please. Let us pray it is not urgent.”

Byleth broke the beautiful violet wax seal, inlaid with a single rose petal beneath the crest of Gloucester. Lorenz’s finesse in all things, especially something so minute as his wax seals, always brought warmth to her belly. As she unfolded the missive her nerves spiked once more, fearful of the contents. Ceris keeps her eyes downcast some space away, hands folded at her waist. His handwriting was exquisite and pristine, and it always reminded Byleth of his long-winded yet well researched essays. 

_My Queen,_

_I hope this letter finds you well, though not so well that you are thriving without me. As I cannot say the same, such a revelation would injure me greatly. I can only hope that you are as distressed by our extended parting as I am. _

_I must digress, though I do miss you terribly. Settling this area has been a greater ordeal than I previously feared. While I have made strides to establish the Bridge under the greater reign of von Aegir, the minor lords of our former Alliance take great umbrage. I must remain as both mediator between my father’s ambition and a representative on your behalf. My dual roles here have ruffled feathers, and some believe I may favor my father out of bias. _

_While I intend to prove them wrong, it may take more time than I had previously anticipated. I am so sorry to say this, but I do not see any way that these matters can be settled in less than a month’s time. I am continually hosting the surrounding lords at the Gloucester estate, and I will remain keeping them here until a compromise is reached. Perhaps the notion of being away from their lands at such a critical time will make them more susceptible to reason. _

_Please understand that this thought brings me no joy and that I will do everything in my power to hasten this along without damaging the delicate situation. I long to see you once more and will write everyday so that you do not forget me. Rather than allow them to consume me, I will keep my soft thoughts of you a goal and constant reminder of what I am striving to achieve. To return to you has become my new prize to be won. _

_I will not fail you, nor our fledgling kingdom. You couldn't have picked a more suitable representative as I, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester. I will return to your arms as soon as I am able. _

_Until then I will dream of you. _

_All my love, _

_Your Husband _

Byleth’s eyes read and reread the text, disappointment taking root and twisting at her middle. Through this she clenched her jaw to maintain her neutral visage, not allowing Ceris to see her distress. “I see, thank you.”

Ceris curtsied again. “Will you reply, Majesty? I will fetch your quill and ink if it is urgent.” 

“No, no thank you. I will reply to him in the morning. I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. You can go.”

Ceris left the room, sealing the latch of the door with a loud click. Byleth looked to the letter once more, her eyes obsessively tracing the small endearments. It was soothing to know that he missed her, that he thought of her with longing. The idea that they must spend an even longer period of time separated was a new, colorful agony. Considering the news she bore, she now found herself at an impasse. 

Should she wait for his return so she could tell him face to face? While this option was the more favorable, it ran the risk of her secret spreading through the palace like wildfire. Were that to happen, the whole country might know before she could even tell him. 

The other option was to send a letter with the news, ensuring that he hears from it first from her. It had been the impersonal option at first, but this letter had shifted her feelings on the matter. He had so eloquently expressed his longing for her in a mere letter, surely she could do the same...though this option presented another challenge. News of her pregnancy could thoroughly distract him from his duty in Myrddin. No matter her decision, each were imperfect and posed their own risk. Why did everything have to be so difficult? 

The thought of Lorenz learning of her pregnancy from a news flier filled her with dread so palpable it nearly overwhelmed her. She could only hide her condition from the people around her for so long; the servants had already started looking at each other with knowing eyes when she retched in the morning. Without her consent she had entered a race against time, with no perfect result. It was as maddening as it was confusing. 

Byleth reached the agonizing decision to inform him via messenger, the true lesser of two evils. To combat the impersonality of a delivered letter she would need to send an express messenger they both trusted. It was the only solution, to present him a letter delivered by a friendly face. He was doing such important work and could not afford distraction, though…

She decided to send her messenger in a week’s time. Perhaps he would be so near completion at that point that the distraction would not undo his progress. Perhaps he could finish the negotiations quickly and return home to her posthaste. But who to send? Who should she send to deliver such a vital message? Whom did they both trust implicitly not to betray them, who could also provide support if he needed it?

Byleth reached her decision easily as she shifted back down into her comfortable nest. The letter took a special place upon her husband’s pillow, and she smiled wanly at her own childish action. She patted it as if she were patting his shoulder, a chaste action of affection. Perhaps this distance was something she would routinely become accustomed to the more their roles demanded it, though she didn’t enjoy the thought. There was nothing to be done now but try to rest and she intended to give it her best attempt. Byleth sunk her head upon the pillow and closed her eyes once more, as an odd peace had followed her grand decision. 

It would have to be Hilda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning out to be much longer than I had originally anticipated. I'm just having so much fun writing this scenario, I can't help myself!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth appeals to Hilda for help and gets some interesting advice.

The decision had not come easily. The thought of actually following through with her plan had thoroughly twisted Byleth’s already fragile stomach into knots, threatening to cripple her. The morning came as it always had, with her rolling out of the sheets and spilling her vile stomach into the perfectly placed chamber pot. The maids knew; the eerily perfect placement of this porcelain bowl told her as much. 

If they knew, which she knew they must, it meant she had precious little time before others would learn. 

As luck would have it, Hilda was in Derdriu killing time and enjoying the pomp of royal service. As one of the Queen’s closest friends and a royal guest she had been granted every service and luxury those titles afforded. Of course she had taken advantage of them all, pampering herself into the wondrous lethargy of never having to lift a finger. Byleth had been entertaining her for the past fortnight, as both of their husbands were engaged in Airmid peace talks and Hilda found the negotiations loathsomely boring. Rather than remain in her new lands alone, the daughter of Duke Goneril had instead elected to spend time with her cherished friend. The two women found comfort in their shared circumstance and often supped together in the evenings. 

Hilda came to her thoughts unbidden, and the thought of appealing to her for help filled her with cold dread. A maid entered the room with hurried steps as she wiped her lips clean with the back of her hand. Far from gasping, looking alarmed, or raising a scandal, the woman simply rushed to her queen’s side and helped her to her feet. The maid kept her eyes down as if Byleth were a beast to be feared, cautiously dabbing her forehead with a cool cloth. After a few steadying breaths Byleth nodded and the woman strayed from her side to continue her original task. It was her duty to prepare the queen’s gown for the day and she flitted through the room like a busy honey bee. 

It was going to be another long, harsh day of ceremony and governance. Byleth’s life was defined by tedium and service, and in a way it had always been, she supposed. The difference was that it now bore a dramatic flair she did not enjoy. Her home was a fishbowl for all of Fódlan to enjoy, evidenced by the fact that her sickness was never without audience. By contrast, wherever Hilda was this morning she was very likely enjoying herself. That thought made Byleth a little sad. 

The maid returned and began helping Byleth into her gown one piece at a time, pulling and stretching the fabric over her form with deft hands. It was almost impossible for her to remember what dressing was like before her coronation—sometimes she was permitted to pull simple gowns on herself, and others she was expected to stand still as a mannequin and be crooned over. This gown was a powerfully rich garnet, cut into three different pieces and designed to accentuate the neckline. It was surprisingly soft and giving on the inside, defying the common Fódlan fashion of stiff outer garments. The maid forsook a corset entirely, smiling as conspiratorially as she dared to her queen. It was a small thing, and brought the words _I’m on your side_ to Byleth’s mind. 

They were with one another for awhile longer as the maid, called Gretya, tied her mint hair in a dizzying array of plaits. They talked of small things as the woman worked, like the winds of the sea and the call of the noisy gulls. Someone else entered Byleth’s periphery and disposed of her chamber pot, a humiliating shadow locked in strange routine. Like every morning before the action dusted a pink trail of embarrassment across her cheekbones. Determined to force the thought from her mind, Byleth cleared her throat. 

“Gretya?” Her voice croaked with the rust of morning. 

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“When you go, would you please fetch Hilda von Aegir for me? I would like to meet her in the drawing room for breakfast, if you don’t mind.” 

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Byleth found “Your Majesty” far more troublesome and far less endearing than “Professor” had ever been. It was true that she had never been routinely called by name—even her father had always just called her “kid.” Coaxing Lorenz into calling her by name was a feat so grand she nearly wept when he’d first done so. He was red as a strawberry and just as sweet; all shy, fluttering lashes as the word fell from his lips like a rose petal. 

Her name had since been reserved for the temple behind their bedroom door, the altar of clinging fabric and heated breath. Thinking of him with his hair askew and breathing ragged intensifies her blush tenfold, deepening scarlet stretching to the tips of her ears. 

“Your Majesty, are you well? Should I get the cold cloth again?”

Byleth cleared her throat and coughed in a most unladylike fashion. Her thoughts had never strayed so indecently in the past—what had changed? Perhaps she was simply nervous and homesick for her husband. “Oh no, thank you. I’m fine. Just a little warm.”

After she was fully done up and her hair immaculate, Gretya disappeared to inform Hilda of the summons. Byleth sat in complete silence and studied the figure reflected, her mouth tightening upon closer inspection. A woman looked back at her through the glass, a delicate and well-cared-for lady of means. Her hair was elegantly braided at then twisted together at the base of her skull, a large necklace accentuating the dips of her collar bone and stretching downward across her bust. Their eyes met and held together, an anchor in a turbulent sea, observing the mutual fear in losing themselves to the water below. 

This new position drove a wedge between the woman she had always been and the symbol she was forced to become. Byleth had been forbidden from cutting her own hair (as she always had) in favor of it being expertly snipped by professionals. She’d been denied large freedoms such as roaming the countryside alone to small luxuries such as grooming herself. The Sword of the Creator itself had become largely symbolic, ornamental as it hung from a decorative hilt at her side. Byleth would not pretend as though she loved war nor strife, but it had been all she’d ever known. She’d cut her teeth on brutality and now found herself toothless. 

How could she raise a baby, when her earliest memories included her father’s arms wrapped around her on the saddle, his calloused hands tight upon the reigns as they bounced? She knew no permanent home nor comfort, and therefore could not exude stability to her child. How could she raise a baby, when she remembered how her father broke her knuckles at ten? The people here seemed scandalized by her rigorous training regimen and stalwart nature; she wanted her child to be strong, but was Jeralt’s strict nature something to emulate? How could she raise a baby within this strange new world of perfume and poison, when she herself was barely adapting? The child that grew within her was not her own, instead belonging to all of Fódlan. Only Lorenz, the eldest son of Duke Gloucester and the future of that land, could ever know what that was like. 

The prolonged intensity of her own green eyes roused her to action. She could not do this without Lorenz’s help. It was maddening to be within an environment where she did not thrive and instead felt wholly at the mercy of another’s tutelage. Perhaps her child would flourish here, the halls of this palace their own personal classroom and battlefield. The foundation of that possibility all started with Hilda. She rose, straight backed and imposing, her feet carrying her towards the drawing room. Whether she liked it or not, it was time. 

When Byleth advanced through the open, airy halls of the palace nervousness twisted within her gut. She appeared before the door to the drawing room all too suddenly, a page bowing and granting her entry with a flourish. Sitting in the drawing room, at a table heavily laden with iced cakes and jams of every flavor, was her favorite pink-haired warmaster. 

“Hey, Your Majesty,” her voice was drawn out and playful. “I knew you’d want to hang out. As much as I love lounging around your fancy palace, I do get awful bored.” 

Byleth smiled as she approached, taking the seat opposite her friend. She noted that Hilda wore a dazzling array of color coordinated baubles, looking very much like an expensive chandelier. “It is rather dull.”

“Oh, that’s only because you’re not used to real life. Who knows what will happen now that you’re here, hm?”

Byleth hummed a quizzical reply as she picked up a small silver knife, spreading a scoop of jam on a crumbling biscuit. She prayed it settled her stomach rather than turn it. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Hilda snorted and sipped her tea. “You know; backflipping, sword whipping, dragon slashing—that kind of stuff. It follows you like a bad rash.”

It was Byleth’s turn to laugh despite her general unease. A quiet chuckle was all she could muster as she sank her teeth into the sweet pastry, politely covering her mouth with her palm. “I suppose it does.”

“Yeah, but that’s what makes you so fun, I guess.” Hilda watched as her friend finished her pastry with a gusto that couldn’t quite be considered proper. The Professor had always had such a large appetite, after all. “You don't usually call me for breakfast though. You must have been really bored.”

The queen sputtered and gave an unwieldy gasp at the biscuit’s dry descent. Hilda watched with a keen eye as Byleth poured herself tea, drank it too quickly, and coughed once more. She’s about to stand and slap the woman’s back when Byleth shook her head to indicate she was okay. 

After a moment’s reprieve and deep breathing, Byleth figured she had been found out. “Actually, I had a favor to ask.”

Hilda winced comically, flashing her a wink to mask sudden nervousness. “Oh, Your Majesty, I don’t really do favors.”

“I know, but this one is important.”

She leaned inward with her elbows on the small table, closing some of the distance between them. The scooting motion ruffled a doily. “I _especially_ don’t do important favors, Professor.” Her voice had dropped in volume, large eyes searching for any hint of Byleth’s intent. The new title lost out in favor of the old, slipping through the cracks of protocol. 

Byleth knew Hilda’s body language well. Much like herself, it was her truest method of communication; what Hilda said and what Hilda meant were almost never in synchrony. It was obvious that Hilda was agreeing now, that she was concerned, and that now more than ever she was also _nosy._

“If I asked you to fly to Gloucester estate in six days’ time with an important missive, would you do it?”

She made a noise of surprise. “Like an express message?”

“Yes.”

“For who?”

“Lorenz.”

“...why are you asking me so far in advance? Why would you need an express messenger in six days? That sorta defeats the ‘express’ bit.” 

Byleth sat her teacup down and steadied her breath. She released a long, slow exhale as if preparing to give a grave sermon. “That’s. Well. If I tell you now, can you keep a secret until you leave?”

Hilda chewed at the inside of her cheek, visibly weighing the question. “What happens if I can’t?”

Byleth had been expecting this, though she knew that Hilda would come through where it counted. She squared her shoulders and flattened her tone, exuding authority. “I would consider it treason.”

“Oh, oh gosh. So like, a really real secret huh.” Hilda leans back in her chair, as if kicked back by the force of what Byleth was asking of her. What she wouldn’t _give_ to tell Claude this amorphous secret that could brand her a traitor, already, even before she knew what it was. That alone was reason enough to agree. “Sure thing, Professor. I’ll take him your secret. And tell me now; I swear by the Goddess, all I hold dear, and all my favorite foods that I won’t tell.”

Byleth glanced at the door, relieved to find that they’d been left alone. Still she lowers her voice to dangerously more than a whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

Hilda blinked once, twice, three times. A silence spread between them as vast as an ocean and as silent as a grave, all weight suspended in the course of a few seconds. “Oh.” Hilda’s face broke into a wide grin, relief visible in her every feature. “Oh congratulations, Professor! That’s wonderful news, so sweet and all. Not treasonous at all, really.”

Byleth shook her head. “Lorenz does not know, and I do not want the whole country to become aware before him. Once news of my condition is known, it can not be unknown. There’s protocol to consider.” 

“So why do I have to wait six days to tell him?”

“I want him to have the opportunity to finish his work with Ferdinand regarding Myrddin.”

At this Hilda dramatically rolled her eyes. “Professor I’m sorry, but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You should tell him as soon as possible, or he might really be the last to know.” This had nothing to do with her selfish desire to begin penning a letter to the Almyran prince, oh no. “I don’t think Lorenz will have any trouble doing..._whatever_ it is that he’s doing down there.”

“I do not wish to impede upon his duty.”

“Why not? You’re gonna have a ba-“ she was violently shushed by Byleth, as her voice had risen in pure excited emphasis “—by, sorry, uh, baby!” She whispered. “He’s gonna be so excited!”

Byleth found herself thoroughly at Hida’s mercy. She wrung her hands, her throat still chapped and dry; perhaps this hadn’t been the wisest choice after all. “I am not so sure. This is an inopportune time, it is unexpected, and we have never discussed children. Our roles demand separation in great lengths of time, and the tedium if my sequestering will double his work. If anything this pregnancy, right now at this moment, is one of the worst things that could have happened.” 

Hilda deflated slightly. The fact that Byleth was queen and Lorenz her royal consort had never crossed her mind; within this room they were simply old friends who’d gone to school together. As much as she hated to admit it, Byleth had a point. A few, in fact. “So…you think he’ll be mad?”

“Yes, I do.”

This single handedly knocked the wind out of Hilda’s sails. It occurred to her why Byleth hesitated, why she’d want to delay the news as long as possible. The tang of copper filled her mouth as she realized that she’d chewed through her cheek in concentration. The more she thought about it, the more she became convinced there was only one solution. With Hilda’s way they could both honor her queen’s request for secrecy _and_ potentially ease her suffering. “There’s only one way to know, Professor.”

Byleth furrowed her brows in curious misery. “What do you mean?”

“I’m going to go tell him today. Rip it like an old bandage, saves you the agony of apprehension. It also stops other people from finding out before he can.” Byleth had gone slightly pale, knuckles bone white from where they gripped at the fabric of her skirt. It filled Hilda with pity for her friend. “With your permission, of course.”

Byleth felt many things, the most presently apparent being pride. She had taught her student so well. _Strike quick and put an end to it. Otherwise your strategy is cruelty._ The memory came to her unbidden with the phantom scent of chalk and ink. “You have it. Go, but be supportive. I will need you to be his friend in my stead. I cannot...I cannot leave the palace.”

“Don’t worry, Professor. If he’s mad, I’ll calm him down. Besides, I think Lorenz will be obsessed with the idea of a baby who looks just like him, you know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HILDA HILDA HILDA


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reveal!!!

Lorenz Hellman Gloucester was in his element. Though the circumstance routinely vexed and annoyed him, he could not bring himself to look at the situation entirely with vitriol. The lords of the new Fódlan being cramped under his roof for an extended period of time was as challenging as it was amusing. Nothing was as singularly hilarious as two lords debating loudly across the lacquered table, only to huff off and slam the doors of adjacent chambers. 

This, of course, was by his own design. Lorenz had taken great care to make the situation as uncomfortable for them as humanly possible in an attempt to lower their inhibitions. When they shouted he subdued, when they grumbled he retained, and when they lamented their homesickness he weaved nostalgic descriptors of their land into negotiations. It was working, slowly and surely, to his advantage. 

And despite the ache for his wife, he was enjoying stretching his political legs in familiar territory. Here, in the land he was raised to rule, his every interaction honed this civic second nature. His father’s ire had even been checked routinely by a lofty click of Lorenz’s tongue—who would dare cross the Royal Consort, son or no? He was sure that The Duke Gloucester was just as ready to be rid of him as the rest of the noble squatters. 

Ferdinand von Aegir had been the lone rose of the occasion, and Lorenz had taken great care to see his loyalty in the war rewarded. Acheron has been a subject of von Aegir, and as such Lorenz saw fit that he should be rewarded the territory. While that matter had at least been settled, the decision of which brother should control the bridge was highly contested. Previously powerful, the family that Acheron had left behind was fragmented and lowly; their wealth stemmed from control of the bridge alone. The two younger brothers of Acheron fought tooth and claw for the structure a full fortnight, and both Lorenz and Ferdinand were growing impatient. 

They could have simply named the elder brother Malchior successor and been done with it, but he had forsaken his claim ten years hence for the love of a godly woman. Now that his wife was dead and his younger brother set to inherit territory, he had become quite insistent that he reclaim his razed lands. The younger brother Braxton was technically in the right, but bore such a weak political stomach that handing him the land felt like a death sentence for all parties involved. 

All present lords currently agreed that the best solution was to divide the land between them, though the bridge itself would still need to go to one or the other. It was this decision, and the influential logistics of it, that had mired them in the impasse. Both Lorenz and Ferdinand often found themselves staring at one another from opposite sides of the table because of the brothers’ antics, the surface a fitting stand-in for the river itself. 

The two now shared a cup of tea in a remote study, technically a part of Lorenz’s personal rooms. As the other nobles rested on the opposite end of the grand manor, this place was a fitting escape. Evening had fallen like a shroud around them and all diplomacy had halted for the day, to their great and mutual relief. The two men might have retreated for peace and quiet, a moment alone, but they had found a great solace in one another’s company. 

Ferdinand placed his tea cup upon the fine saucer, a knot of continual worry branded between his brows. “Lord Braxton always seemed so bright, before. It baffles me to no end that he should act like this here. He does his claim a great disservice, if I may be so bold.”

While Ferdinand trusted and saw in Lorenz a confidant, a bond fostered by war, Lorenz found himself hesitant. His new rank demanded that his cards always remain firmly at his chest. “Maybe so. One must admire his endurance, though I hardly believe his intentions purely noble. While he seems patient I cannot help but avoid remark altogether.”

Ferdinand raised his eyebrows, but nodded with a serene nobility that so many others lacked. “Of course, how rude of me. We take our tea here so that the bothersome talk ceases, and here I have continued it.” The man clicked his tongue as if proud of a sudden thought. “Why not speak of this wonderful tea instead? You have simply spoiled me, this whole stay.”

Though light and conversational, Lorenz did find relief in the break of negotiation. Polite small talk indulging his passion for tea was a rest for the weary mind. “As is only fitting; I can think of no one more worthy of this robust blend as you. It is a joy to partake in the subtle aroma of roses accompanied by such an esteemed colleague.”

His companion simply beamed at the praise, though exhaustion ghosted across his features. Lorenz assumed that, like himself, Ferdinand was more than ready to go home--after all, the both of them were similarly parted from their new wives. The Gloucester Estate had always been the very definition of home, a meaning which now solely rested with Byleth. He opened his mouth to reply when he was interrupted by the loud opening of the door. 

In, to both of their immense surprise, walked Hilda von Aegir. Her pink locks were tied in a delicate braid and carefully pinned at the back of her head, flyaways straying in every which direction in windswept grace. While her garments were still fine they bore the dirt and dishevelment of a long journey. She beamed and strode toward her seated husband, doggedly pursued by a flustered servant. Before the butler could even speak, Hilda pointed and waved. “Hey Ferdinand! Long time no see, huh?”

Ferdinand nearly drowned in his tea, sputtering as the two men rose to their feet in a clamor dictated by etiquette. “O-oh Hilda! Why are you here? I-I mean to say, how are y—“

“Oh I’m just fine, except for flying so far my whole back hurts. So sorry for interrupting, but I am honestly so tired I could faint. You guys having tea? Oh please pour a lady a cup, did I mention I’d _flown_ all day?”

Lorenz, immediately alarmed by per presence, looked at his aide with confusion. Ferdinand, by contrast, grandly gestured that Hilda should sit with a “Please, my love! Be my guest!” He even pulled up a chair for her, waiting until she was seated before delicately brushing his fingers along her knuckle bones.

As Hilda settled at their small table and Ferdinand began pouring her tea, the servant finally found his voice. “I am so sorry, my lord, Hilda von Aegir comes bearing a missive from Her Majesty, the Queen. I asked her to wait but—“

“No matter. As you can see, she is amongst friends.” Lorenz’s ire disappeared almost immediately upon hearing his wife’s title. The servant flushed a deep, ugly crimson and fled the room. It was now the three of them, Hilda chatting pleasantries with an overly-obliging Ferdinand. Lorenz wasn’t sure why, but the sight of their happy reunion filled him with an odd annoyance. By the time Lorenz returned to his seated position, she was already happily sipping tea. While they seemed content to continue their conversation, Lorenz was suddenly very nervous. “Hilda?”

She turned to him with a smile. “Yes, Lorenz?”

“Do you have something for me?”

Hilda hesitantly lowered her teacup to the table, throwing Ferdinand a nervous glance. “Oh yes I do, but I figured we could talk a little first! You guys have been cooped up here for so long, and I thought you’d at least like some polite conversation. I’m sure those other guys have been terribly dull.”

Normally he might agree, but his wife had never sent a close friend bearing a missive across great distance before. That gesture alone had Lorenz on high alert, suspecting calamity. “If it is from our queen, I doubt that I should delay it even a second longer. I am sure you understand my urgency.”

Hilda looked...crestfallen? Not an uncommon expression when she didn’t get her way, but something about this one looked genuine. “Okay. That’s okay. We can do this now, if you want to.” She turned sweetly toward her husband. “Hey, Ferdinand?”

Ferdinand perked up immediately when she made eye contact, eager to serve. “Yes, Lady von Aegir?”

“Can you um. Spare us some privacy? I promise we’ll catch up _right_ after.”

Ferdinand, far from being affronted, looked to Lorenz with his own worried brow. Panic was radiating off of Lorenz in waves, and pity immediately consumed his friend’s features. The hosted lord stood, quickly said his pleasantries, kissed his wife’s cheek, and ducked out of the room. 

Now Lorenz sat face to face with his friend, watching with sickening apprehension as she pulled a wax sealed envelope out of a stylish pouch at her side. Hilda seemed to hesitate before handing it over, and he took it from her grasp like it could spell his doom. 

“Read it slow, okay? And breathe, calm down. You look nervous enough to die.”

He threw her a nasty glare as his fingers broke the seal.

_My dear husband,_

That, at least, was good. Not frightening at all. 

_I am sorry if my missive, or Hilda’s presence, has alarmed you. My thought in sending her was both for your comfort and her own, since she has missed Ferdinand greatly. I know that you are busy establishing peace in the Airmid valley and applaud your progress. You have never ceased to make this kingdom, and myself, proud. _

She was acknowledging his work and that the message might have panicked him—he feels his white-knuckled grip on the parchment ease ever so slightly. He chanced a quick peek upward at Hilda, who was watching him with the intense scrutiny of an eagle. Was that...pity? 

_I merely wanted to reach out to you because something has come to my attention. While I would have vastly preferred waiting till you returned to me, the situation is delicate and I could not afford to wait so long as that. I apologize. _

Why on earth was she being so wordy? Byleth had always been direct, succinct, concise. The fact that this letter betrayed her normal speech had his eyes racing through the text at break-neck speed. He could barely comprehend her niceties at this point; _what had happened?_

_While I realize now I am continually apologizing, I must continue to do so under the anxiety that I may break your focus. Please put your work in Myrddin above all else, as it single handedly prevents further unrest. I suppose there is nothing to be done, even should your focus shatter. Please just know that this was not my will, nor my intention. _

Break his focus? Unrest? Sorry? What was wrong what was wrong _what was wrONG—_

_I must inform you that I am pregnant. Though I know that this is an inopportune time, it was my fear that you should be informed by an outside source the longer I waited. I was most distressed to hear that your work there would delay you--_

He froze. Rather than continue onward, his eyes instead retrace the ground they had already covered.

_I must inform you that I am pregnant._

Again.

_I must inform you that I am pregnant._

He blinked, focused again, and read it once more.

_\--pregnant. _

There was a high, keening sound that rang throughout the room like the clattering of bells. The noise was frantic, surprising, and it took Lorenz an embarrassingly long time to realize that the sound was coming from his own throat. He was laughing, infectiously, and the longer he read the word the more it warped into nonsense. 

_Pregnant._

“Uh, Lorenz? Hey are you okay?”

He tore his eyes away from the parchment to look at the woman seated across from him. Her eagle eyed worry was fringing on its own panic horizon, a sight which made him laugh all the harder. A swell of emotion overwhelmed him, so powerful that for the moment Hilda was his greatest friend in the universe. He rose so suddenly that the chair clattered behind him in its fall, Hilda flinching at the sound before Lorenz closed the small distance between them. Quite unlike himself he reached toward her unbidden, grabbing his friend’s hands in his own. The parchment crinkled between their skin like a barrier. “She’s going to have a baby!”

It was Hilda’s turn to laugh, though it still bore a nervous edge. “Yeah that’s why she sent me! She wanted you to know in case the staff let it slip before you got h--”

“Home!” Lorenz finished the sentence for her, breaking into a new wave of hysteria. He released her hands and did a quick turn in the salon, the whole garish room spinning and suddenly over saturated. “What a genius woman, how adept.” He remembered the letter then, lowering his eyes to the parchment and vainly attempting to smooth out the crinkles he’d only just made.

_I was most distressed that your work there would delay you, since I had originally intended to give you this news myself. Do not trouble yourself or worry on my behalf, all is well beyond some sickness. Manuela expects the child to be born in the early Great Tree Moon._

_We shall discuss this more on your return. I love you._

_Byleth_

He looked at the letter for far too long, retracing the words there with the urgency of a man on fire. He must have looked crazed, the laughter dying in his throat, until Hilda once more broke his reverie. The rise and fall of his own chest was suddenly as loud as the banging of a war drum.

“Congratulations, Lorenz. I’m glad to see you’re not upset, she was awful scared of you being angry.” Hilda released an exhale that dripped relief. “I told her you would be happy, though! I was right!”

Perhaps it was the news that made him forget himself, but her words sent him careening back towards reality in a numbing descent. The smile slowly fell from his lips and was replaced by a thin line. He was a shrewd man, perhaps not so shrewd as Claude, but Lorenz was quite adept at reading the emotions of the people around him. This was a vital skill for nobility like himself, and as such he had honed it as sharply as the tip of his spear. Everything fell into place at once, blood draining from his face in horrified realization.

Hilda’s behavior clicked with the finality of a checkmate. She’d been apprehensive, dreaded Lorenz reading the letter, and flinched at the falling chair. Perhaps the most damning action had been her utter surprise at his glee, the fact that he had to coax her into mirth. 

Ignorant of his inner deduction, she made a grand mime of wiping faux sweat away from her brow with a dramatic “Whew!” Her relief stabbed him like a serrated knife, rotting the joy on his tongue. 

Byleth was not joyous with the news of their child. She was fearful of his rebuke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Lorenz’ adorable laugh when Byleth agrees to marry him in the S support; he clears his throat and forces it down after, but man. Getting lost in mirth is so Cute


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz reaches a few conclusions.

It was a dizzying and self-damning rigmarole he’d doomed himself to; retracing the steps of their school days, sweet tea parties, her father’s death, the time spent apart after The Fall, the march to war, his long expected confession, a hesitant first kiss, a grand royal wedding, and the domestic bliss that had been their marriage thus far. Flashes of her face, fragments of her voice, the phantom memory of her touch all overwhelmed him in categorical review. He looked through the happiness, lived it again it in dizzying quickness, all looking for a single moment. 

Lorenz was determined to find the single blundering, abominably rude, unforgivable and ruinous moment he’d somehow indicated that he did not want her children. Byleth did not simply think things without reason--if she was fearful of his reaction, he must have somewhere, somehow, given her cause to be.

Was the basis his haughtiness during their debates? Or was it perhaps their lover’s quarrels, which now seemed silly and utterly meaningless? Had he made an offhand comment about her pedigree? _Goddess forbid,_ he couldn’t have actually said something so horrendous, could he? 

Hilda could only watch with rapidly returning concern as Lorenz’s downcast eyes darted to and fro as if he were incanting a difficult spell. It was the kind of frantic calculation that had her instinctively ready to find an axe, though this setting was hardly appropriate. The words of her queen came to her mind and she cautiously stepped forward, as if approaching a wild animal. “Hey Lorenz? You don’t look so good, you wanna sit down?”

He flinched, his eyes snapping up to meet her. He cleared his throat and clenched the letter, still crumpled in his vice-like fist. “I only,” his voice slightly cracked. “I am quite well, thank you. Obscenely well. You said--”

“Lorenz, you’ve got a scary glint in your eye that shouldn’t be there. Remember? We’re happy!” The woman brought her clenched hands upward in celebratory fists and a theatrical smile as if to illustrate her point. She then pointed to the dimples in her cheeks with a grand flourish. “About a baby!”

“--she warned you that I would be angry?” Every fiber of Lorenz’s being wanted to visibly panic, but he reminded himself that he was a noble and gentlemen. Laden with her intense scrutiny his consciousness barked orders to his visage, desperate to appear collected. Nostrils flared as he straightened his posture to portrait-worthy perfection. It only half-worked. 

Hilda’s theatrical smile waned, but only very slightly. “Oh, well yeah. That’s why I came to tell you. In case you freaked out. Like you’re doing right now.”

Lorenz swallowed thickly. “Did she give you any indication as to why?”

“Why what?”

His patience waned dangerously thin. _“Why she believed I’d be angry?”_

Hilda relaxed, her shoulders slumping and hands falling to her sides. “Yeah.” The task at hand was rapidly losing its original luster; especially when her own husband was somewhere in another room, close yet completely out of reach. 

“Then please, share her concerns that I may determine how best to address them.”

“If I tell you, do you promise not to go full Lorenz-meltdown? You’ll calm down and write her a nice letter, right?”

“I swear, on both my honor as a Gloucester and position as our Queen’s Royal Consort, that I will only use the information in the service of easing her mind. As is my duty.”

It didn’t really seem right to discuss with Lorenz the insecurities Byleth had shared in confidence, but Hilda didn’t have any other option. It was easy to remind herself that she _had_ been given direct orders to comfort Lorenz, and maybe this information could do the trick. “Yeah okay. Let’s sit down and have more tea though, I am still really tired.”

Sitting down to tea whilst his nerves were so thoroughly shot was the last thing he wanted to do. Lorenz felt as if his body could have sprinted all the way to Derdriu, adrenaline pumping through his veins in alarming dosage. Still, he righted the chair and sat himself upon it, Hilda having lowered herself back into her own seat. Every small movement was a strain, a personal restraint upon his desire to run to her. The beating of his heart thrummed a distracting rhythm within his ears, a feeling he hadn’t felt since the war roared in thunderous horror all around him. He was usually more adept at controlling himself. 

Hilda, by contrast, made a long show of pouring herself another cup of tea. In truth she was really just stalling, trying to collect her words and reheat the leftover tea that had grown tepid within her cup. Her hips and legs ached with the arduous length of her journey, and now she was expected to comfort the most dramatic man in Fódlan. The queen owed her. “Keep in mind that she told me all this as a secret between us girls. I’m breaking an unwritten code by telling you, you know.” A lie. 

The man studied the woman before him through the haze of alarm. He cleared his throat and once more tried to put on a grand show of composed, inner calm. “Of course. I will address her concerns as organically as I can without betraying you. Please, I just need whatever information you feel comfortable divulging.”

She smiled slightly, sipping at her tea. “I’ll hold you to that,” she warned without bite. Her eyes remained upon the golden liquid in her cup for a moment, her exhaustion becoming more apparent the more she sat still. “She mentioned what bad timing it was, having a baby now. Country needing your attention, and all that. You know how Byleth is.”

Lorenz released a small breath. That logic was sound, and he couldn’t help but secretly agree. Ruling the United Fódlan presented a new challenge every day and they were far from true routine. Many nobles scattered across the land had no idea how to function under the new central government, blundering through their reign and cooperation with equal parts inexperience and ambition. Former nobles under the Empire continued to function under the lens of poisonous political maneuvering whilst the former Kingdom followed in sullen deference. The new chain of command was a break in habit many of them found near impossible to adapt to. He hummed, bidding her to continue. 

“Well...I guess she’s worried about balancing country and baby, you know. Which I told her was totally stupid because she has a whole palace full of people to help her.” The tea hit her tongue like a balm, it’s warmth seeping from her chest to the tips of her fingers. “But again, Byleth usually does _everything_ herself, like a maniac. Won’t admit she needs help.”

The descriptor stung, since Lorenz prided himself on his constant attention and devotion to her aide. “My wife is a very capable woman, to be sure. However, you have only divulged normal concerns regarding a royal birth,” he continued. “None of these indicate any kind of personal vendetta against myself.”

Hilda seemed immediately affronted. “That’s not true, you dolt. She’s scared you’ll be mad that you have to do more work once she’s confined, and that you’ll hate going through the,” Hilda waved her hands as if describing an amorphous concept, “protocol of it all. Gosh, for being such a poncy nobleman you can be rather thick.”

Lorenz blinked. “The protocol of it all,” he repeated, his voice utterly flat.

“Yeah, exactly. I told her she was being silly.”

“Silly,” he echoed. It was a strange word on his tongue; so strange that he chuckled, which then multiplied itself into full laughter once more. Relief swept through him like a wave crested by the knowledge that he had not personally affronted her. His heart suddenly ached for his wife so desperately he could have wept. It was so like Byleth to worry about overworking those around her whilst pressuring her own forehead directly to a grindstone. 

She was worried about the _logistics_ of having his baby, and that he would be resentful of putting in the work. His pregnant wife sat at home and worried about troubling the people around her as she brought the next sovereign into the world. It was a delicious stupidity that reminded him time and again why he’d been desperate to marry her. Her dedication to the service of those around her was equal only to his own; what a wonderful match he’d made.

At his laughter Hilda wanted to thoroughly congratulate herself. All it had taken was the repeated notion that the whole situation was stupid mixed with a vague concept of political difficulty and he’d been won. She’d intentionally omitted Byleth’s concern about their roles dictating separation—what use was there in making him feel bad about something he couldn’t fix? She laughed along with him before shoving a cookie in her mouth, sighing deeply as her tastebuds were too tired to interpret the sweetness there. 

“Hilda, I am sure it goes without saying that you have done us a great service,” he announced through elated snickers. He found himself intoxicated by a combination of relief and joy, now wading the sappy waters of gratitude. “You have fulfilled your task to both the queen and myself and I am indebted to you for this message.”

She watched as he drew a hand across his eyes to wipe away the wetness there, the laughter a vehicle that allowed other emotions to spill. How disappointing that she had gotten to see this outpouring while his own wife did not. Nobility had always demanded an impersonal cruelty, had it not? “I did fly quite far, you’re not lying,” she said through a grin. “Think I’ve earned some shut-eye, hm? You should probably be writing to the Professor anyway.” 

It had grown quite late by that point, and she’d been flying since just after dawn. Hilda had to quickly throw a hand before her mouth to stifle a yawn, lest she reveal the half-chewed cookie to Lorenz’s delicate sensibilities. At that moment he would have killed for her, so he stood quickly and offered his hand. “Of course, how rude of me. Please, allow me to accompany you to Ferdinand’s rooms.” 

“Oh nah, loverboy. I’ll make that angry butler take me--you should have some time alone to think.” With that she stood and firmly shook his hand; it was an awkward gesture, but it seemed like the right thing to do. It was better than leaving his hand hanging, at least. “Get some sleep, yeah? Once that baby comes you’ll forget what it was like.”

Lorenz shook Hilda’s hand, focusing on the warmth it provided. While he wanted to make a joke and bid her goodnight, he was certain that his voice would crack if he tried. Instead he could only provide his sincerest smile and a small, responsive laugh. When she removed her hand from his grasp and left the room with a wink, he found himself rooted to the spot. 

The study still seemed intensely colorful, bursting with over-saturated drapery and oil paintings. The sweet scent of the tea still lingered on the air and lilted like aromatic incense. Lorenz blinked, tears dropping from his long lashes onto the fabric of his cravat in hurried descent. A flurry of feelings he hadn’t expected and believed himself composed enough to subdue wracked his body through hiccupped laughter. 

He was going to be a _father._

It took him a few minutes to compose himself as new waves of laughter continually assaulted him. Hilda’s departure had been very timely, very courteous, and he was determined to control himself before others could see the extent of his bliss. True nobility rested within neutrality; in inward command and lack of outward passion. It was a trait he longed to emanate and perfect, aided at every instance by the continual observance of his wife. 

He shouldn’t have thought of her. It only made his peals of laughter tinge upon sobbing all the more intensely. 

In truth, this revelation should not have come as such a surprise, as Lorenz had always known his duty. He was to learn, to exude nobility, to be shrewd, to marry a woman of means, and continue his line. Every facet of his life had been predetermined long before he’d ever been born, just as his father before him. This moment was always going to come to fruition; he had taken his first steps towards fate by observing the women of Garreg Mach. As a teenager he’d never thought of the moment with joy or excitement, merely the coming of inevitable truth. 

And now he stood in utter shock and wonder at the delight this knowledge brought. A marvel made reality; certainly this elation was only the result of Byleth’s involvement. Lorenz could not imagine that he would feel this bubbling warmth had he married any other woman. As a matter of fact the mere thought of another Lady Gloucester was so unpleasant he could hardly entertain the notion. He cast it away as he hurried to the ornate desk, wiping his eyes all the while.

Once he sat his body automatically reached for ink and quill through sheer muscle memory. Part of him didn’t feel quite ready to write the letter as he was still clearly processing, but he knew that he had to return a letter as soon as possible and quell her fears. The morning would come all too soon, his with relief and hers with apprehension. She deserved to know that he would be there every step of the way. Merely musing upon the sentiment set his eyes again to spilling.

Byleth Gloucester carried the heir apparent, first true born leader of the United Fódlan. He would have to discuss the logistics of its impact on county Gloucester with his own father in the morning, though it would only be after sending an express messenger to Derdriu. Hilda deserved to remain in the comfort of her own husband after such grand service, and he would be damned if his own house would not rival the palace in terms of her comfort and luxury. He cleared his throat and dipped his quill in ink, hesitating above the pristine parchment that lie beneath.

He could only pray to the Goddess above that his words did not fail him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basking in the love of Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, don't mind me


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth addresses her council while Lorenz addresses his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the stretch between updates! I've been trying to keep up with Inktober this year and that has been. Huh. Yeah. But anyway, enjoy the Count!

Morning came with its sickness and left with lasting lethargy. The sun rose high in a wondrous blur of fragmented heat, baking the salt and sand of Derdriu in warm haze. The jeweled port city clamored with life spun in a tapestry of motion and color, from the high and bright awnings to the low dust of the cobbled streets. With each passing moon the whooping calls of sailors and angry sea winds felt more and more like her home; her longing for Garreg Mach Monastery was abating. While the balustrade halls there bore witness to her genesis, it now held too many painful memories to be thought of reverently. She thought of the monastery less and less; perhaps her current wistful state was merely caused by a lack of sleep. 

Byleth watched from a courtyard balcony as the merchants peddled their wares in sing song voices upon the streets below. Hilda had left the previous morning, mounting her wyvern with mock theatrical dread. After a kind word and an oath of service, she took to the sky with one powerful swoop. Standing upon the high parapets Byleth watched as they disappeared across the vast southern horizon, iron in her belly. Her fears would be settled soon enough. 

A breeze now shifted the hair around her face, the warm death of autumn heralding the season of storms. She pulled her cloak more tightly around herself and gave a great lumbering sigh. This current contemplation was purchased by her call of recess from a council meeting impossible to postpone entirely. Her new circle of ministers comprised of a few familiar faces and a large number of strange ones. For the most part she found them easy enough to wrangle as her voice naturally commanded obeisance, a trait that had served her well as both an instructor and a general. While trade agreements and tariffs were not her usual strong suit, she did find joy in the strategy required. 

These joys became harder to find with her mind so thoroughly occupied by thoughts of Lorenz. Byleth’s nerves were rattled but she carried on through gritted teeth. In the war she had laid siege to Fort Merceus all whilst nursing a broken shield arm; she was quite good at advancing through pain. Compartmentalizing her anxiety here was no different. 

Lorenz woke up this morning aware of her condition. Whatever he felt lie on the other side of that horizon, borne by Hilda’s wings. The thought turned her stomach, bile quick to pool at the back of her throat. She could not keep it a secret any longer now that Hilda had removed her single hesitation. Byleth gave one last look to the high afternoon sun and trudged back into the audience chamber, gown fluttering about her legs with the breeze. It was time to officially announce the birth of a sovereign. 

~*~

Requesting an audience with the Count of Gloucester was easy enough. While his mother made it continually apparent that Lorenz was more than welcome to surprise his parents with a visit, he simply could not excuse showing up unannounced as a matter of etiquette. As it stood he did not wish to speak with his mother just yet, instead opting to discuss the implications of his current _situation_ with the presently seated Count. Beyond all thought of politics and maneuvering, Lorenz simply yearned to share the news of the impending birth his father’s grandchild. It had the recipe of a heartwarming conversation between the two of them, for once. 

He’d had a long night of tossing and turning, hopping out of bed like a loon to toss his previously penned letter into the trash. As he lie there he would think of some new necessary edit, some other sweet praise, rendering the current rendition utterly despicable. Up and down he would go, his back aching from the arch over parchment at the desk, eyes strained by candlelight. This had lasted for the better part of three hours before exhaustion shrouded his eyes and clouded his senses. Eventually defeat against the constant enemy spelled his doom into the soft down, drowned by the abyss of sleep, Byleth’s name the last prayer of his lips. 

Lorenz woke with electric energy and immediately requested that both an express messenger be sent to the queen and an urgent meeting with his father, smiling at his attendant all the while. When the boy dashed away to deliver the messages Lorenz dressed with great care, styling his hair to perfection and admiring himself in the mirror. He wandered to the kitchens for a bite of breakfast, absorbing the halls of his childhood home through new eyes. Time passed as he took his morning tea, the energy within the cup rattling both his nerves and his hands. 

The hope of a heartwarming reveal dimmed when Count Gloucester accepted the audience a full hour after he’d been asked. Rather than invite him to their personal rooms he’d bid his son to meet him within the grand study, the place where he conducted the majority of official governmental business. From this action alone it was clear that the Count had not taken kindly to the shift in rank between father and son and was determined to stretch his existing influence as far as it would take him. Had Lorenz not known better he may have found it insulting, though instead it just came across as a waste of petty energy. 

Lorenz had been nothing but deferent to his lord father, respectful of his place as the Count of Gloucester and as head of the house. Throughout the whole stay, he'd only intervened when the Count’s ambition impeded the progress of negotiation. The Count was a calculating man, hesitant to forget a slight, which made approaching him a feat of strategy. Lorenz could only hope that this pleasant news was enough to repair the man’s wounded ego. 

By the time the Count finally deigned to meet Lorenz was only slightly annoyed. His father had always been this way—determined to meet everything and everyone by his own clock. It was hardly the sort of quality one of his birth should emulate, though it was unlikely to change anytime soon. Lorenz’s fine boots barely touched the plush carpet as he made his way across the estate, dodging Acheron’s brothers like a bad bout of flu. He had rehearsed this meeting a dozen times and could only hope the other actor remembered his lines. 

When he reaches the door he was met with the familiar sensation of being a child. How many times had he sat outside this door as a boy, waiting for his chance at his father’s affection? A page entered first to inform the Count of his arrival, closing the grand oak door behind him. Lorenz straightened his back and smoothed a crease from his lapel, awaiting summons.

The door reopened and Lorenz was ushered inside the office, a space he knew better than his own hands. Every detail of this room was seared into his mind with aching clarity; not one thing had changed from his childhood. To be fair, would he ever have the heart to change it himself? 

Before him at a grand desk sat his lord father, Count Eamon Castor Gloucester. The downcast eyes were a mirror of his own, though marred by crows feet and darkened circles. His deeply indigo hair was peppered with gray, the silver strands a sharp contrast within a neat ponytail at the base of his neck. A ring adorned on every finger as his quill dragged through the ink and scratched upon the parchment in languid strides.

Once he put the quill away and looked up at his son, it became immediately apparent that Lorenz himself was not the only one pushed to the brink of exhaustion by the peace talks. As the true host sat before him looking utterly wan. Almost instantly Lorenz’s previous ire dissipated in a smoke of pity. “Father.”

The Count gave a tight but genuine smile. “Lorenz, do sit.” He obliged, perching upon the edge of the seat with immaculate posture. Lorenz clasped his hands together upon one knee, a habit which betrayed his nervousness. “You mentioned that it was urgent?”

Ah, so it was straight to business then. Desperate to reply and hesitant to continue, Lorenz cleared his throat. “That I did, yes”

There was a hum of reply as his father’s gaze bore deep within his very soul. It was as if he were laid bare, all secrets as transparent as a sheet of ice. “Then you must forgive my delay in seeing you this morning. Please continue, I do not wish to further stall you.”

Lorenz furrowed his brow. The comment made him think that the delay had not been an act of grandstanding after all. “Has something happened?”

“A small matter of grain taxation. Nothing that need trouble us now, anyhow.”

“I see,” he frowned slightly. The sharp memory of Edelgard razing the fields in a curl of smoke and flame seemed to answer the question he refused to press. Now was not the time for the horrors of war--it was high time that they focused on restoration. And restoration began with sowing the fields with the next generation. “I came to inform you that I received a missive from the queen last night--”

“And sent your reply with the dawn.” The Count sounded bored, and Lorenz couldn’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance. Of course his father would speak over him now, why had he expected that to be different now? “Yes, I know. Are you called to the Capital?”

“No, in fact. I am to remain here until the debate of Myrddin is settled.” The Count raised his thin eyebrows slightly, the creases between his eyes smoothing ever so slightly. Lorenz prided himself on the small victory of surprising his all-knowing father.

“I see, so it was a personal matter then.” Sharp, just like always. Sharp as a razor’s edge. “One you...wish to share?”

Lorenz straightened his jaw and pushed his shoulders back, the curl of a smile finally gracing his lips. “Yes, though it is both personal and a matter of state.” He dove into his next words with all the rehearsed precision the morning had bought. “The queen is--”

“With child?”

Robbing him of the announcement robbed the air from his lungs. Though Lorenz naturally wanted to deflate he remained neutral, skipping only a single beat before acquiescing. “Yes, with child.” He kept himself still and smooth as a riverstone, smiling all the wider in a defiant rebellion to keep his mirth. “She is due in the Great Tree Moon.”

“Congratulations, Lorenz.” The Count leaned back in his ornate chair, rather like a throne, and steepled his fingers. His smile was genuine and curled like smoke at the edge of his lips. There was something in his eye--a shine, a spark, the look that Lorenz had once desired above all else. It was a spark he now drove himself to defy. It was _pride._ “I pray you feel the same comfort I did when your impending birth was announced.”

It was difficult to find words to bridge the generational gap, the banks now so close they were near touching. “Father, thats--”

The Count dismissively raised a hand to hush the words in his throat. 

“Forgive my interruption, but I must continue.” Lorenz stilled, hopeful at his father’s next words. “You have fulfilled your duty to this house as instructed--marrying that Byleth was a stroke of genius, though I cannot deny my former doubts.” He quieted a moment, rolling his tongue in his mouth as if tasting a bitter remedy. Lorenz did not care for the sentiment, so clearly aimed at his wife, one single bit. “The royal line of Fodlan will bear the name Gloucester. You have made our house a line of kings; well done.” 

_ Well done._ Well done was his every childhood fancy brought to life and it rotted through the man he’d become like overripe fruit. All it once the sinking feeling that his father heralded the birth of his grandchild like some scheming, personal victory was an icy wroth. There had been the shadow of an almost, the ghost of a maybe, that the sentimentality of family might still hold magical wonder in his sire. That he might simply be excited for a new member of the family rather than another link in the great chain, another eldest shackled by it’s conformity. He should have known better than to hope such idle thoughts.

His aim at nobility, his ultimate goal at a match well made--had it damaged them? Self-congratulations spread through the Count like wildfire, a spark that Lorenz’s marriage had ignited. Would his father care whether or not his son had married for love or duty, if the result was the same?

That thought had never occurred to Lorenz before. He had married for love, genuinely, but who would believe that now? He had proposed undying love to the Queen of Fodlan, and she had miraculously accepted him. His father’s praise ghosted a chill upon his spine at the thought that Byleth might ever doubt his intention.

But she could. She had more than enough reason to. His hands slicked with sweat upon his knees, overwhelmed by the horror of fulfilling his father’s every fanciful wish. It was too much to contemplate and his father awaited reply, so he only said “Yes. Thank you, father.”

“My grandson, a _king._ Do you see, my son? Patience and an advantageous match have won us the _crown.”_

His father called for wine then, far too early in the midmorning haze, and the taste soured on his tongue like poison.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth receives a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay since the last update! I got overwhelmed by October craziness, a thing I was very afraid would happen. But updates are back on schedule!

The sound of a clearing throat resounded through the room, as uproarious in the silence as a crack of thunder. Byleth awoke in a disoriented jolt, clamoring for the dirk beneath her pillow through the well worn paths of muscle memory. When her hand touched the hilt, obfuscated by the darkness of cool fabric, her body was ready to meet its foe. The queen’s mind was as blank as a cornered animal as she rounded off the bed to the balls of her feet, blade unsheathed dangerously in the pre-dawn gloom.

She was not met by a villainous snake or remnant of the war, however; instead her ears drummed with a grand crash as a woman threw herself to the floor.

“Majesty!” Her cry was high both in pitch and volume, dripping with well-placed fear. “Forgive me! I am sorry!” Byleth regulated her breathing as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, squinting down at the collapsed Gretya. She had thrown herself into a magnificent bow, her face flat against the floor and her hands cradling the back of her head in horrified supplication. 

The terror she had inspired in the chambermaid filled Byleth with guilt, the room suddenly sharpening into focus. “Oh Gretya,” she cooed and lowered the dagger, “I should be sorry. You startled me.”

In truth it was no proper excuse, and remorse near consumed her as she helped Gretya off the floor. With her life drifting towards a previously unknown routine and domesticity, she couldn’t help but feel overly foolish when the ghosts of war haunted her. Adrenaline still thrummed through her veins as she hoisted the woman up, abandoning royal decorum and assisting instead as she might have helped a fellow soldier.

Gretya had a piece of parchment taught within her fist like a vice, the wax seal marred by her ferocious grasp. Byleth eyed it warily, her temples still throbbing with the rush of instinct. Gretya smoothed her skirts with one hand and rubbed the back of her wrist along her brow, a vain attempt to steady herself quickly. 

Every servant within the palace of Derdriu knew their queen to be a dangerous woman. Never cruel or unjust, but her apathetic demeanor mixed with her martial ability unnerved them. Byleth hated that she had given weight to Gretya’s prudence, that she might whisper to her friends of how the mad queen had nearly killed her.

“Are you alright?” Byleth’s voice remained even and stalwart as ever. Gretya met her eye and gave a nod, swallowing hard. 

“An express message for you, Majesty. From your husband.” She extended the missive without the performative and deferent bow, a fact for which Byleth was thankful. Here in the post-blunder come down, she desperately needed to feel ordinary. 

The fight or flight instinct flipped low within her belly as she locked eyes with the parchment. All would be revealed within, her anxieties either realized or discredited. Beyond that, the light was still dreadfully low within her bedchamber--the grog of sleep ached at the back of her eyes as she looked once more to Gretya.

With a silent understanding, Gretya pulled the parchment back to her waist, lowering it away from Byleth’s grasp. She crossed the room with long, familiar strides and coaxed the nearest oil lamp to flame with the smallest spark of magic. Long shadows grew upon the walls, painting the room in a private dance of shadows. 

“What time is it?”

“It is a quarter past nine, Majesty.” Gretya pulled the flame ever higher and spoke to Byleth with her back turned, focus drawn by the lamp. 

Byleth raised her eyebrows ever so slightly, confused by the time. “It is dark outside.”

“Aye, ma’am. It’s a quarter past nine in the evening. You fell asleep, and we thought it best not to disturb.” Gretya returned with the light, setting it on a bedside table. “Considering your condition, I mean.”

It was very unlike Byleth to fall asleep in such a way, and the thought surprised her. She had assumed she’d slept through the night, that Gretya had come before dawn to rouse her. Lorenz must have sent a swift messenger with his reply, a thought which tied her in knots. The queen carefully laid the pointed blade upon the same table as the light, sinking down upon her bed with a neutral visage. “I understand. I am ready for the letter.”

Her chambermaid did not stay to see her queen react. She pressed the scented paper within Byleth’s waiting grasp, bowed, and then slipped from the room. Byleth made a mental note to reward Gretya’s courtesy with a gift of some sort. Perhaps it could even double as an apology.

Byleth studied the parchment in earnest. It was heavy in her hand, proof that her husband had outdone himself in prose. The wax seal, which was inlaid with a single rose petal, popped open with the tiniest coaxing pressure. Line by line his neat handwriting revealed itself, a comforting sight that she would know anywhere. 

Even without reading she could tell that this was a third or fourth script; Lorenz had a funny way of presenting pristine final drafts back in his academy days. Byleth had always appreciated the effort, as his were often the most enjoyable essays to read; far easier to decipher than Claude’s subdued allegories or Raphael’s chicken scratch, at least. 

She let her eyes flutter closed for a steadying breath and released it slowly, pausing with empty lungs before opening them once more. She could delay this no longer. The hand of anxiety gripped a lump in her throat and she lowered her gaze, doing her best to comprehend the words with a fearlessness she did not feel. 

_My love, _

_You may think it foolish, but I have been thinking of the greenhouse at Garreg Mach. You awoke and found the Monastery a ruin yet you were determined to breathe life within that small, transparent square. Seeing the barren and wilted leaves never deterred you nor stayed your hand. The General of the Leicester Alliance simply rolled up her sleeves and started pulling weeds and turning soil._

_It wasn’t long before the green returned, do you remember? Slowly but surely. I remember how diligently you tended to the roses, which grew virile and vibrant within your care, loved for no other reason than their resistance to gloom._

_I remember observing you there, surrounded by the color of life, utterly awestruck at how the red of their petals clashed against your pale skin. You were a vision, a dream of honey-dew sweet between the lips of lovers. I watched you move between the aisles of flora with your watering can whilst I remained rooted to the spot; stuck, cursing my own rigidity. How could you be free to nurture and grow whilst I stagnated?_

_You were so lost in thought, making your own peace in those roots while the fires of war threatened to choke us. They were your pocket of clean air, yet you never expected anything from them but the bravest task of living. I was caught between thinking you foolish and thinking you divine._

_I know the moment I fell in love with you, have I ever told you that? Once, after Gronder, I watched from the doorway for far longer than was polite. I had come for strategy yet found myself enraptured by your beauty amongst the cultivated chaos. Your sparkling eyes drifted from a rose and saw me there, gaping like a fool._

_You smiled at me. For as long as I live, I vow to never forget the small curve of your lips when you saw me that day. How you plucked the most beautiful of your roses, resplendent in her prime, and presented her to me._

_The petals were so radiant within my hand, contrasted so sharply against the cold metal of my gauntlet. You gave me a piece of your heaven, and from that moment I knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that I wanted to marry you. That I wanted to dedicate my life to your happiness, your smile. That I wanted my children to be yours, ours, laughing and running through the aisles of your greenhouse. _

_I want to join you within the garden, my love. The palace will be our own heaven paned in glass for others to admire in envious scrutiny._

_I thought the peak of wedded bliss was watching you walk down the aisle with roses in your hair, yet you surprise me yet again. How could words ever express my ecstasy, my joy at the news of our child? You have always been a caretaker of life, a beacon of growth and hope. I think of the birth of our baby and am filled with the ache of rapture, how could I feel anything less?_

_Once more I am greeted with the sensation of standing at a grand entrance, watching you nurture everything around you, waiting for the day you present me with a perfect rose. I cannot wait to cradle and cherish your newest gift within my hands._

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

_Lorenz Hellman Gloucester _

A heavy droplet splashed upon the black of his name, distorting the ink through her blurry vision. The tears had come unbidden and spread like wildfire through the intensity of her relief. It stretched outward through her extremities to the silent grave where her pulse should be. 

Byleth swallowed thickly through tears she did not expect, fully surprised at her own bodily reaction. She could only remember truly crying once before in her life, a memory so painful she didn’t dare revisit it. Why then, did her elation warrant the same response?

The expression “happy tears” finally sank within her understanding with renewed context, and she gingerly pressed her lips against the lavender and myrrh scented pages. The letter bore his cologne, no doubt by design, and the wash of scent-memory flooded her senses. Through allegory and metaphor he had cradled her every fear and solidified his presence, even from hundreds of miles away.

Byleth let herself fall back upon the bed, the pages of his letter still pressed against her lips. If she closed her eyes and inhaled she could almost fool herself into thinking he was in the next room. These emotions were as strange as they were overwhelming, and Byleth lie consumed in an ache for her faraway husband. The comfort of his amorous confession bloomed warmth through her, the haze of sleep pulling across her lids like an anchor once more. 

He loved her, a sensation she feared she would never grow accustomed to. What was raising a child compared against winning a war, routing out Those Who Slither in the Dark? It was nothing. 

_No, not nothing,_ she thought with a teary grin. It would be joyous. Grooming the future ruler of Fodlan was a responsibility as sobering as it was electrifying, accented by a thousand pitfalls and opportunities. The joy of her pregnancy finally dawned, gifted by the sweet memory of roses. She lowered a hand to cradle her flat abdomen, comforted by her husband’s support. He had never abandoned her before, never left her to fend for herself against the trappings of her royal court. No, he had always filled the gaps where her common upbringing left her exposed. He had always been her light in the storm of the aristocracy’s uncertainty; how could she have ever worried that he would abandon her?

She pulled the letter from her face and allowed sleep to claim her, consumed by a peace she had not known in weeks.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth, acting as Queen, establishes a boundary for succession.

It had been two weeks since she’d received the letter, and still her husband had not returned. His confession had provided her with a clarity on the situation that she had not yet known, a peace in certainty. While her government harassed her almost daily to announce the birth formally, it was clear that a related matter of state had to be addressed first. 

Succession. 

For a fortnight she had suffered arduous deliberation, finally settling to announce her intentions whilst a grand number of faraway lords were in attendance. The decision was neither lightly reached nor lightly made; Byleth prided herself on considering every angle and truly felt that this was the best solution. Besides, it was better to hear it from her own mouth than a pamphlet. 

Her privy council, along with the other gathered lords, had been called to meet at midday over a matter of the utmost importance. And while her husband should be in attendance, the matter that consumed his land had only just found resolution. He had been tasked settling his region and overseeing the newly instated Lord Malchior. The queen had been told it was Hilda’s genius who had resolved the matter in the end, a silver lining to sending her friend away.

Though he should be here by her side, she felt a guilty sort of relief at his absence. Her impending edict was best made without his input, as he would more than likely object. Byleth could not afford an outpouring of emotion now.

Byleth Gloucester’s court presently surrounded her, as the much awaited conclave was officially in session. The former Chamber of the Roundtable had been a natural fit to house such convocations, both in refinery and symbolism. The high-vaulted ceiling provided wonderful acoustics of ringing voices against dark wood, high windows revealing the line of sea beyond. 

Permanent vassals of the Crown were in attendance, the nobles who had surrendered land ownership claims from far flung reaches of Fodlan to serve her. So too were the reigning counts, margraves and high nobles, eager to hear her proclamation with their own ears so that they could return the message to their vassals. 

Amongst them were a number of faces she recognized, ones she had been eager to host within her new seat of power. It was important to have people she trusted nearby, and she was endlessly grateful for their presence. This meeting also presented the opportunity to host her former students, who’s new titles and responsibilities rendered visiting a rarity. The floor presently belonged to a redhead addressing her from the opposite end of the room. 

“You might not realize this, Your Majesty, but your northern border is pretty touch and go. And while I’m sure it can be smoothed over, I can’t exactly do that from here.” Sylvain leaned against the high-backed chair, fingers locked behind the base of his skull. “I mean, I’m good but I’m not _that_ good.”

Sylvain had actually been sent as his father’s emissary to brief the queen on growing unrest within Sreng, and this gathering had simply presented an opportunity to reach more ears. Byleth had allowed him to divulge his information first, anything to belabor her upcoming announcement. It was clear that he had not come out of interest for information she might divulge. 

“You shall return to aide Margrave Gautier as soon as possible,” she replied cooly. “No doubt your diplomacy is sorely needed.” At this the others around her table, great lords and learned men, began scribbling ink to parchment furiously. Her every word being documented was not unlike the classroom full of pupils taking notes, though this was far less endearing.

“Yeah, you can say that again,” he muttered with a humorless laugh. “Not to betray my father’s trust, but he’s already asked that I make a grand show at the border with the Lance of Ruin.”

“I would highly advise against that, speaking objectively. There is no need to incite violence with Sreng needlessly.” Again, more scribbling and muttering voices of assent surrounded her.

“I know, I learned from the best. It’s why I came here in the first place, actually. My father is too proud to listen to me, but I figure he’ll comply with your royal decree.”

“To do any less would be treason,” interjected Lord Baelin von Hevring. Where his elder brother was disinterested and quickly fled politics, Byleth knew Lindhardt’s cousin to be a political sycophant. 

For now she chose to ignore his comment, keeping her eyes locked with Sylvain’s. “Yes well, you may return to your lands at first-light to deliver my message. I will even allow you to make me the villain, anything to keep your lord father from spurring unrest.”

Sylvain laughed, a hollow ringing sound. “I’ll keep that in mind, Majesty.”

Her attention shifted to the faces all around her, most regarding her with subdued anticipation. She had already announced her pregnancy a fortnight ago, but had requested that they not come to her with advice until her lord husband had been informed. Now that she had received his favorable reply, and thought long and hard on its context, she felt ready to address them properly.

“Before I begin, is there another matter that needs our attention first?”

A few rustled papers, some looked at one another, others shook their heads silently. None wished to belabor her point, and Margrave Edmund flashed her a winning smile as her eyes flitted past. There were no further delays to be had.

Byleth straightened her back from the head of the table, eyes focused on her folded hands. She took solace in the grand emerald ring, ostentatious and glamorous, thinking of Lorenz’s letter with a softened heart. She could only hope that this did not sting too terribly.

“As you know, I am with child. I gathered you all here, both my Privy Council and acting Nobles, to discuss the matter of succession in depth.”

Their eyes were glued to her, many visibly leaning forward or straightening their posture to receive her decision.

“The child within me, who will be born in the midst of the Great Tree Moon, will be named the Heir Apparent upon birth. I have made the decision for the security of Fodlan that the line of Gloucester will not bear a male preference. Whatever the sex of my child, it is irrelevant for the sake of ascention to the throne.”

Byleth looked up from her hands, drifting her eye-contact between her gathered lords and ladies. Having their confidence was of tremendous importance, especially within the genesis of her fledgeling country. The faces around her seemed supportive, some bearing soft smiles that she knew better than to trust. She could only hope that they would follow her direction as instructed.

“What’s more,” she continued after a beat of silence, “I also hereby decree that the matter of succession shall not be hindered upon the bearing of a Crest.” 

At this, many gasped. Sylvain barked a laugh, and it was not quite so hollow as before.

“Your Majesty, but--”

“Please be silent, I am not finished. While I am open to your critiques in all other matters of governance, this matter is of personal importance. Allow me to finish.” 

Cowed, the new Count Bergliez closes his mouth in a huff.

The queen steels herself before speaking again, a hand instinctively falling to cradle her still-flat abdomen. This would have been so easy with Lorenz; he had a way with nobility, an air of authority, that could command the attention of self-important men. It was as if he spoke a foreign tongue that she alone did not, and the nobility seemed content in keeping her in the dark.

There had been a reason she had not waited for his aide, however.

“Whether or not my child bears a Crest, either of Gloucester or Flame, their status as firstborn will grant them the position of Heir Apparent. In the event of my death upon the birthing bed, they shall be crowned and styled as the new sovereign of Fodlan with their father, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, serving as their regent until they come of age.

“In the tragic event that we should both die,” many took a sharp breath, though they dared not interrupt once more. Byleth hesitated at the small noise, lost within her own thoughts. The next decision had been made solely for the benefit of Fodlan. Bile rose in her throat at the notion, but she was quite adept at gritting through action that needed to be done. “My husband shall be crowned King of Fodlan.” 

She knew that she had to rush her next words to avoid their dissent, though her throat ached at the bitter taste. “After an appropriate period of mourning he is to take a second wife, and any child born of him will continue the Royal line of Gloucester.”

Their voices rang out at once in a cacophony of political panic, something she had very much wanted to avoid.

_“But, Your Majesty--”_  
_“Lord Gloucester is not royalty--”_  
_“Please, I beg you to reconsider--”_

Byleth stood sharply, the chair beneath her wobbling dangerously from the motion. The council bit their tongues at her sudden movement, falling silent as they regarded her. It was a fearsome to remember the goddess-touched mercenary that stood before them, so distant it seemed in the years after the war’s end. She had taken well to queendom, her air neutral and mild, and only her dangerous eyes bore the memory of the adept warrior and general she had once been.

“I wish to appoint my husband, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, heir to the County of Gloucester and father of the future sovereign, as a Prince of the Realm. He shall be styled as Prince Lorenz Hellman Gloucester of Fodlan, Duke of Derdriu. By appointing these titles, we ensure that should the worst come to pass, we need not fear a war of succession.”

The sound of a clearing throat drew her singular attention. It came from the minister of her household, Marlon Oswald. A loyal remnant of House Riegan, he was instrumental in her day to day affairs and an altogether familiar voice. She nodded in assent to allow his speech. “Your Majesty, while avoiding a war of succession is of the utmost importance, we do feel that the discretion of this matter requires a more measured approach.”

Noises of assent surrounded her, and her eyes flit between her gathered lords before returning to Lord Oswald. When her gaze returns to meet his he continues. “We named you our queen with no precedent due to your adept service of this country in the War of Unification. Your husband was not--”

“I am well aware that you chose me for this role. And if I die on the birthing bed, there is no natural successor. Lorenz fought alongside me at every battle, regardless of the personal cost to himself and his family. He is adept with speechcraft, knows this country, and bled for her as much as any of us. Any time spent electing a new monarch is time that could fracture us. I will not allow that, as queen.” _At any cost, regardless of pain inflicted._ It sickened her to think of him, distraught and in mourning, wetly grinning through another _I do._

It was Sylvain’s turn to pipe up, and he did so with a dry chuckle. “She’s right. People are cutthroat when power is involved, especially over such a high office.” When a number of lords threw him a nasty look, he presented his upturned hands. “Hey, Lorenz would only be ascending in the event of her childless death, anyway. Why don’t we spend our time hoping for a safe and healthy birth?”

Ingrid, from her place at his side, grabbed one of his raised hands and lowered it to her lap; her own belly big with child. “Sylvain is right. The allegiance of the former Kingdom lords hinges on newfound stability. If that is challenged, we cannot guarantee that our lands would not seek to splinter.”

“Even that notion alone is treasonous,” Count Bergliez parried. “A new order has been established in this eastern throne. To throw away years of diplomacy would be nothing short of madness.”

“Many will not see the power vacuum as ‘madness,’ Berliez. They could view it as an opportunity.” Margrave Edmund stroked at his bearded chin with a contemplative look. “While I am not keen on contemplating the tragedy that would instill a king, I cannot deny the queen’s sound reasoning.”

Byleth returned to her seat with a slow descent, eyes affixed on the new debate taking place. While she had understood that such a proclamation could be met with resistance, she was now finding it difficult to cease their discussions. Slowly, they seemed to weigh the benefits in her favor. Still, she couldn’t be sure that they wouldn’t simply speak of her lunacy behind closed doors and out of her earshot. 

“House Hevring will gladly supply as many midwives, healers, and medical professionals necessary to ensure a healthy birth.”

“Naturally, House Edmund is willing to do the same and more. My daughter Marianne will personally assist the Royal Physician to welcome our next sovereign.” Marianne flushed a deep crimson at his proclamation, yet lowered her head in assent all the same. 

“You are belaboring the point,” Byleth cut at last. “Of course I am dedicated to a happy, healthy birth; that is my greatest desire. The point of this decree was to ensure that my child, regardless of sex or Crest, would bear the Royal Standard of Gloucester.” She paused briefly for emphasis, conscious that her voice dripped with the authoritative timbre of a general. “But you will recognize the edict that I have made. Should I fall, Lorenz will ascend, his royal titles formally recognized by this government. Do I make myself clear?”

Marianne Edmund was quick to rise, beaming at her friend through reddened cheeks. Ingrid Gautier followed quickly, hoisting her husband up by their intertwined fingers. Count Bergliez and Lord Hevring rose after an exchanged look, until one by one they all stood surrounding her seated frame. A boy no older than eighteen scribbled her decree upon royal stationary, where it would be formally presented later for her seal of approval. Blood rang in her ears at the decision she had made, all for the glory and preservation of Fodlan.

“Aye, Your Majesty,” came the uniform reply. She offered them a small smile then, feeling as if a large political victory had been won.

She could only pray that Lorenz felt the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I'm Making Stuff Up As I Go. I should have one more chapter where they reunite, and then I can finally do one-shots of her pregnancy/raising the baby! Thanks for reading guys, ILU all ;~;


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz returns to his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for how long it took to get this update out! I really appreciate all of the comments I’ve gotten on this fic, they really kept me going and make me want to keep updating it. I know things are crazy right now so I also wanna say that I hope you guys are staying safe! Thank you thank you thank you for reading, I’ve still got a couple more updates to do before I consider this one done. We’ll get through this!

After a full thirty one days of separation, Lorenz was finally due to return. His land had been deemed sufficiently stable by the strict authority of Count Gloucester who, in all honesty, was likely anxious to be rid of his son. Lorenz himself took no offense at the notion, rather resolving to press down the unpleasant thoughts his father’s gouging had stirred. Hopefully distance was the key to unlocking such peace.

While he would never come out and assert such a feeling directly, it was becoming clearer in his mind that the County of Gloucester was less a home and more an inherited duty. While it had provided a welcome distraction at first it had since warped into a horrid obstacle. He hoped that sensation would not become routine and applauded his own futile optimism. 

Now that his duties both to his county and his country were fully satisfied, he could finally return to his expectant wife in Derdriu. Knowing of her delicate state increased his eagerness to return to her; stress was bad for pregnancies, and Byleth did not yet seem entirely confident with sovereignty. He could not arrive a moment too soon. 

Lorenz’s hips currently ached with the sway of the steed beneath him. The journey from his family manor in county Gloucester to the palace in Derdriu was lengthy, at least five days' ride at a comfortable pace. The pace he’d set had ensured a timely arrival, and the smell of salted sea breeze hit their nostrils on the evening of the fourth day. While his retinue of loyal crownsguard matched his pace without gripe or comment, he could tell that his swift pace and early mornings had worn their patience thin. 

Still, the air was heavy and repressive as the season of storms birthed the Horsebow Moon. They had been blessed by the goddess, who saw fit not to unleash rain upon them, but the late summer heat was taking its toll. He could not contain a sigh of relief when cresting a low rising hill upon the main road revealed the city in all its splendor. 

Derdriu came into sharp focus, and the thirty men that accompanied him gave a whoop into the evening air. Dusk had fallen to reveal twinkling stars above the city, whose firelight guided the men home. The sea expanded beyond in inky blackness, the line separating sky from salt an indigo partition. His eyes crinkled at the sight of his new home. 

Their descent found them at city gates who gladly opened to permit them. While most of the populace had returned home for the evening, some still rushed to view the arrival of a high noble. The queen’s husband was a sight seldom seen in the lower wards of the city, who drank his visage and gave cries of appraisal as the retinue passed. 

Cobblestone street expanded before them on the path to the palace, and with each passing moment Lorenz felt his heart stutter. He would see her soon; the guards at the gate would send immediate word to the palace to receive him. Byleth had likely already been informed of his impending arrival. His stomach flipped at the thought; Goddess, he had missed her so. 

Looking down at himself he realized he was in no state to receive his wife’s audience. Though he ached for her, the mere notion of appearing before her in his current state was a horror. A ponytail was his only weapon against the limp and greasy lilac that was his hair. His armor was well worn and the clothing beneath was slick with sweat. Days of travelling in the late summer heat had left him disgusting, certainly not worthy of standing before a queen. 

Once he finally reached the palace he dismounted before the grand white-stone steps. His legs ached as he handed the steed away to a footman, grinning from ear to ear. It felt incredible to be on his feet after hours of riding, and he straightened his back to pristine posture. Others came to greet him, bowing before their queen’s consort, and one short man with dark hair and eyes stepped forward. 

“Welcome home, Your Royal Highness,” he said with a grand formality. The title confused Lorenz immensely, though he paid it no mind. Surely the servant was simply unaccustomed to royal titles. “Our queen arranged a hot bath and new garments for you in your quarters. Once you are fully refreshed she wishes to see you in the Great Hall.”

Byleth truly knew him better than any other. He nodded and allowed himself to be swept away to his rooms, where a hot rosewater bath awaited him. The copper tub sat in the middle of their shared bedroom right before the canopied bed. Steam rose from the surface of the water and released an intoxicating aroma about the hallowed room. It was here that his wife had penned the letter that made him the happiest man in Fodlan, where she had slept the long nights of his absence away. The rush of returning home seemed too good to be true.

He eagerly stripped of his dirty clothing and armor, not pausing for modesty’s sake before the chamber servants. Becoming accustomed to strangers viewing his naked form was merely a facet of nobility that he’d been raised with. They hastily swept away his discarded garments for scouring before leaving him a brief modicum of privacy. Excitement hummed through his blood as he sank into the bath, for once forgoing relaxing indulgence in favor of efficient scrubbing. Dirt and grime stained the rose scented water as he worked himself to cleanliness. 

His hastiness in bathing was seconded only by previous records set in war time. He pulled a brush through his damp hair, settled into his clean cotton shirt and pantaloons, gave himself an excited smile in his mirror, and fled the room.

Meeting his wife in the Great Hall was a formality for the benefit of the denizens at court. They would need to see the triumphant return of their consort, even this late in the evening, and witness the reunion between newly expectant parents. It was all a show, as their lives were now a grand theater of public obligation. Knowing that Byleth awaited him among a sea of voyeur politicians quickened his step to half a run through the marbled corridors.

Lorenz’s heart thrummed loudly in his breast when he came before a grand oak door. Two servants nodded curtly in his direction and pushed each of the twin doors inward. The room within was bright with candlelight and brazier fire, smelling of oil and glittering with at least three dozen occupants. A hush fell over them at the sound of the opening door, and all turned to appraise him as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light within.

They parted to form a promenade, with only one figure standing at the opposite end of the hall.

He beheld her at last, bathed in a glow so radiant it was either a product of his adoration or divine intervention. The smile she wore was soft and subtle, her eyes slightly crinkling at the edges in newfound animation. Byleth’s honeydew locks were plaited in a long braid, her gown less restrictive and lacking a fashionable corset. 

His every impulse bade him run to her, to sweep her off her feet in a wide arc, to pepper her face with feather-light kisses; but to do so with such an audience would be the pinnacle of impropriety. Instead he could only return her smile with a wide and toothy grin, a lump forming in his throat. 

Gliding down the offered walkway, his shoulders straight and head high, bows and curtsies followed him like a wave. His eyes never left his queen’s, who took a few steps forward to meet him at the end of the gathered nobility. He swept into a grand bow, his throat a painful traitor, hair still damp as it framed his lowered face.

When he rose she approached him tentatively, reaching for his hands which he eagerly offered. She lifted herself on tiptoe to kiss each of his cheeks, performing the prim and proper public affection he’d taught her. Neither said a word; he merely locked eyes with his wife, allowing her to turn him to her side so that they both faced the crowd. It was torture. 

“My husband is safely returned to us from Myrddin,” Byleth’s dulcet voice rang out through the hall. “His keen eye and sharp mind remain a boon to our newly United Fodlan. For this impeccable service, we must allow him rest.”

The crowd tittered and offered polite applause, dispersing only after Byleth led him from the hall. They walked hand in hand through a small side entrance door at the far end of the hall, preventing them from having to backtrack through the crowd. Once the door clicked behind them and the court could no longer hear, Lorenz collapsed into speech.

“You are a marvel for keeping that so remarkably short.”

“Brevity is the soul of wit.”

Lorenz laughed as they navigated the halls where guards stood as constant sentinels. They would not be alone until they reached the sanctuary of their private quarters, where servants could be dismissed. Until then they would have to be happy delicately holding hands, though Lorenz was sure his grip felt desperate and hungry.

When they reached their door and crossed the threshold, he was relieved to find the chamber empty. Even the copper tub had been removed from the room, though the scent of rosewater remained. With the latch of privacy clicking behind them, sincerity finally won over propriety. 

Lorenz was finally free to spin on her; like the snap of a coiled spring he collected Byleth in his arms and embraced her against the chamber door. Her arms found purchase between his shoulder blades and pulled him closer until their bodies pressed flush against one another. The sensations he had felt when reading her letter returned in force, the lump in his throat cracking through somewhat hysterical laughter.

Byleth merely closed her eyes and smiled, drinking in the cacophony that was her elated husband. His hair was damp and skin pink, roses diluting her senses until she pressed her mouth against his smile-stretched lips. He returned her kiss after a strangled breath, less a laugh and more a choked sob.

He lifted both hands to her face, pulling her as close as possible, one kiss leading into another as a dizzying string of affections. Words utterly failed him once more, a phenomena that only Byleth had ever managed. That they were here, together, her hands grasping his tunic with a vice-like grip was nothing short of euphoria. 

Their kisses became heavy and breathless, his laughter abating though their smiles remained. Eventually Byleth looked up at her husband over long eyelashes, her own cheeks wettend by his tears. His sharp eyes softened and returned her gaze, and she offered her widest smile as modest thanks. 

The queen gently removed his left hand from her cheek, brushing her lips along his knuckles as she lowered his flattened palm to her abdomen. The emotion that had once been abating in Lorenz erupted anew, his hand reverent against the cotton that separated skin from skin. “We will have to think of his name,” Byleth stated matter-of-factly.

Lorenz laughed, wet and brief, struggling to fight for his voice. “You are confident in a prince, then?” His voice cracked endearingly at the title.

“Yes, though I instilled protections for the child regardless." Byleth gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "I only realized recently. I just _know_ it to be true.”

It was the oddest thing; Byleth spoke with a contagious confidence that infected Lorenz with certainty. He had often heard titterings from noblewomen who swore they knew the sex of their babes, yet they were wrong just as often as right. The notion that Byleth might be the same never entered his mind; if she spoke of a prince, a prince it would be. 

He leaned down to reach his short wife, resting the weight of his brow upon hers. Both closed their eyes a moment while Lorenz took deep breaths, in through his nostrils and out through his mouth. “I do love you,” he began tentatively. His voice threatened to crack at the sentiment. “I fear I shall never find words adequate enough to express it. That I could be worthy of you, I--”

Byleth laughed very softly, an odd sound. “I love you too.”

He captured her lips again, all salt tears and sappy proclamations, and pulled her toward the canopied bed. It had been too long since he’d last embraced her; he fully intended to make up for lost time.

~*~

The linen they lie in was cool to the touch, exacerbated by overheated bodies. They were wrapped within one another, limbs akimbo, laughing at ridiculous names. Byleth had deadpanned “Feeny” as an option which had cracked Lorenz like a raw egg, the both of them dissolving into helpless giggles. 

“I suppose there’s always Dilbert,” Byleth concluded after their breathing had evened. Lorenz made an affronted noise, tracing the line of her jaw with his forefinger. 

“That reminds me, the funniest thing happened,” he began with a bemused smile. 

“The name ‘Dilbert’ reminded you?”

“No--well I suppose, yes. It was more thinking about names and titles.” He lifted the finger from her jaw to lightly tap the tip of her nose. “One of the servants referred to me as ‘Your Royal Highness’ when I arrived. I didn’t have the heart to correct him.”

He gave a short laugh, then looked to Byleth to receive her amused reaction. Rather than a neutral smile or warm eyes, he found her brow slightly furrowed in thought. The grimly thoughtful expression cut through him like a knife.

“Byleth?”

“I was going to wait till the morning,” she said flatly. She sat up upon the bed and calmly folded her hands in her lap, eyes downcast. “He addressed you correctly. I have made an edict and elevated your status to a Prince of the Realm. You are also Duke of Derdriu.”

Now it was Lorenz’s turn to pull his brows together in consternation. “Why? Surely even nepotism has its limits, especially where your spouse is involved.” He nervously laughed at his own jest, though felt ice seize his heart when she did not lift her eyes. Politics had been his life, his calling, and understanding of her maneuver suddenly overwhelmed him. Elevation as a Prince of the Realm added him to the line of succession. “I see.”

Silence fell between them. Byleth allowed him time to fully absorb the conclusion he had no doubt already reached. She could not bear to look at him, though noted how oddly still he lay beside her. “Are you angry?”

“Angry? No my dear, I could never be angry with you. Especially when your heart is set with the peace and prosperity of Fodlan in mind.” She exhaled slightly as Lorenz continued. “I am merely proud of you for taking steps to protect this country, even with the most unfortunate outcome in mind.”

Relief spread through her stomach like a balm. “I just wanted to be fully prepared, in case--”

“Do not say it. While I wholly understand the need for such preparation, I will not gladly consider the future that brings it to fruition. Not tonight.” He raised his elbow beneath his head on the pillow, reaching to her with his other arm. Where his fingertips trailed across her shoulder, gooseflesh erupted. “Lie with me.”

Byleth complied, sinking back into the embrace of her husband within their linen sanctuary. She snuggled her nose to the hollow of his throat, situating herself comfortably within his arms. Her eyelashes tickled the soft skin of his neck, and it was not long before her breathing became even and heavy. 

“I love you,” she spoke plainly.

“And I you,” he replied. She was gone on a contented sigh.

Lorenz was not so fortunate. His thoughts instead raced to the new truth she had decreed; were she and his child to die, he would be King of the United Fodlan. While Byleth had made her decision with the good of Fodlan in mind, Lorenz couldn’t help but criticize the plan’s short sighted nature. A capable tactician, Byleth was still gaining her political footing. 

For what if an enemy at court preferred his leadership to her own? He had never been demure or humble about his raw skill in governance. This decree presented a rare opportunity for her enemies to exploit the queen’s delicate state. While most of her court seemed to respect and revere her, a royal court always held wolves in sheep’s clothing. His mind raced with one horrid possibility after the next, hating the new wild card he’d been dealt. 

The obsessive thoughts that had plagued him since his conversation with Count Gloucester finally overwhelmed him; he was lucky enough that they had not tarnished the reunion with his wife, though to succumb to them so soon was a harsh reality. Byleth had added him to the line of succession herself; she had exceeded even Count Gloucester’s lofty ambitions.

With each step he became mired in a legacy that was not his own. He recalled boasting to Claude during the war that he was well prepared to become an emperor if needed.

He now realized that the prospect was his greatest fear.


End file.
